


Blind Faith

by Tricksterburd



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: AU, Blind Character, F/F, F/M, Foster Care, Gen, M/M, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-09-28 05:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10073621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tricksterburd/pseuds/Tricksterburd
Summary: He was so candid, so flippant and careless, like he had heard it all before.  Come to think of it, he probably had.This was going to be interesting."Why should I hide something about myself just because it makes someone else uncomfortable?" He had a point.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Hamilton. Trying an idea, getting it out of my head, not sure if I'll keep going. Depends on if I can keep ideas flowing or now.

“Alexander?” Kitty called into the crowded room. Children of many different ages ignored her, knowing it wasn't their name she was calling. Martha scanned the room, taking in how many kids there were. It was so full, so many kids, all of them either with parents who couldn't or wouldn't take care of them, or no parents at all. That was the case of the one she was here to pick up.

“Present.” Both women turned their attention to a boy with long black hair, sitting on an uncomfortable looking chair by the bookshelf. They headed towards him, Martha grinning as comfortingly as she could.

“Hello Alexander, this is Martha Washington. She'll be your new foster mother.”

The boy wiggled his fingers at her, not moving or even glancing up at her.

“Another family, hoo boy aren't I just lucky. How long am I going to be there Kitty? Two weeks, three? Hey Martha, you have tons of furniture that you like to move around randomly? Young kids that leave toys on the floor? Or, no, let me guess. You live in a home with tons of other kids and I'll be sharing a room with five other boys, right?”

“Alexander! Behave!”

“It's alright Kitty.” Martha expected this from a teenager. “I know I'm not the first placement you've been assigned to, Alexander. No, there aren't a bunch of kids around. Just my adopted son, Laf, but he's just a bit older than you. But I don't see why that-”

And then she saw the book he was reading. Plastic pages, raised bumps, no actual printed words. Oh. OH!

“Toys get underfoot, make you trip when you have no idea that they're there. Kids that are young also are easy to trip over. My age? What's he like?”

“This can be handled in the car, Alex.” Kitty shook his shoulder. “We should get the two of you going before traffic sets in.”

The boy sighed, but nodded and closed his book, handing it up to Kitty.

“Thanks for the book, 'See Spot Run' was riveting.” Martha snorted at his sarcasm. Kitty did not look pleased. She had a feeling that donated books in braille were hard to find.

The ride was quiet at first, Martha needing to concentrate to find the freeway and make sure she was going the right way. After that, it didn't seem like Alex wanted to do much talking. So it was up to her.

“You asked about Laf. His full name is a mouthful, so we tend to call him Lafayette. Or Laf, when we're in a hurry. He seems to like his title more than anything else, so we go by it. And you won't be sharing a room with him, we have enough room for everyone to have their own.”

“Everyone?”

“You, my husband and me, Laf, his friends.”

“Lots of friends?”

“Just a few, five that come over, though I'm sure he has others at school that don't come over.”

“Interesting.” Sarcasm again.

“So tell me about yourself, Alex.”

“Oh, you know, nothing exciting to tell. You read the file, not much I can add to that. Five years, eight placements. Most of them because they thought they could handle a blind kid but found out how hard it is to keep their house clean.”

“That's not a concern with us, so you'll be okay. Other problems I should know about?”

“For me? Good question, you said I'll have my own room?”

“Yep.”

“Well, that's a change. Upstairs or down?”

“Up, though we can always change that if you want.”

“No no, that's okay. Big house?”

“Big enough.”

“Cool. Need a while to map it out.”

“Take all the time you need. Let me know if you need me to tell you what and where things are.”

He was so candid, so flippant and careless, like he had heard it all before. Come to think of it, he probably had.

This was going to be interesting.

 


	2. 1,2,3.

“Would it surprise you to know that I didn't read your file?”

“You invited some random kid into your house without reading his file first? You're either very stupid, or very noble.” Martha ignored the comment.

“My husband read your file. He wanted to make sure you were safe to come to us, of course. But when he offered it to me, I refused. I didn't know of your blindness until I saw what you were reading.”

“And what are you trying to get me to do with this information? Feel grateful that you respected my privacy? That you feel some sort of holy divine respect because you accepted a kid right away when you found he was broken?”

“No. N-no I. I just wanted you to know that when I ask you questions, because I really don't know the answer.”

“Then read the file.”

The boy was very rude, to be sure. But he brought up a good point. Why hadn't she read the file? Did she do it because she wanted to feel superior for simply accepting a child and respecting what little privacy they had? Perhaps that was it, maybe she wanted to feel better about herself. But did that change how she wanted him in her family? She wasn't totally sure now.

“We're here. Tell me what you need of me to get into the house.”

“Oh wow, not going to open the door for me and offer your arm like I'm a dottering old lady?”

“Not unless you want me to.”

“No, I don't want you to. I want to be pointed in the right direction and left to figure it out for myself.”

“I can do that.”

And so she did. She watched him exit the car, sling his backpack over one shoulder, pop out his cane again, and wait. Martha did her best, turning his shoulders towards the door, and instantly wanted to help him to the house. But she did her best. And she waited. Alexander, for his part, managed fairly well. He slid his hand along the side of the car until he reached the nose, taking sure steps as he found the edge and beyond. It was like he had walked it every day, his worn shoes crunching on the gravel, his cane swinging slightly over the ground as he ventured towards the house, finding the steps with ease.

“Double doors?”

“Yes, red.”

“Bold choice, white house, two story? Pillars and a balcony above me?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, felt the shade. Very old fashioned, is it like a plantation house?”

“Something like that.”

“Oh goody. So everything's old.”

“We had it renovated a few years ago. Oldest thing in there are the termites.”

That actually got a snort and a laugh from the teen. Made her feel a little better, at least. Martha unlocked the door, quickly standing to the side to stay out of Alex's way.

She was amazed, as for the next hour she watched him silently explore the downstairs of the house. He found everything, touched the walls, counted his steps between doorways, mapped out every corner and every wall until he was able to travel between rooms like he owned the place.

“So what's the upstairs like?” There was no bite, no sarcasm or anger. An actual bit of curiosity. Martha smiled.

“It's nice. Ready to get a tour of it?”

“Please.”

He was being polite. Martha wasn't sure why, wasn't sure what had changed, but was grateful for it. So she pointed him to the stairs, followed him up, and was surprised to find a held out hand for her.

“I know a lot of this is going to be private. So you'll have to guide me around this time. Don't want to accidentally find a room that I'm not allowed into.”

“You're allowed into all of them, but I do appreciate it. Alright, let's start with your room.”

She did guide him around. Showed him his room, where Laff's room was (the door, she didn't let him inside as Laff wasn't home,) the room she shared with George, the bathroom, and other such places around the second floor of her home. The tour ended with Alex counting his way back to what would be his room, and going around exploring it. Sitting on the bed, he gave her a small smile.

“Thank you. That was nice. It's a nice house, lots of room. Let me guess, now comes the part where you want to take me shopping either today or tomorrow. Get me new clothing, probably a phone so you can keep tabs on me, stuff for the room, right?”

“That was the plan.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I find that I'm not around long enough to enjoy settling in, and most of the clothing gets left behind when I'm moved again. Maybe if I make it the week.”

“Do you not normally make it a week at a home?”

“I'll let you read the file and find out. So with that plan scratched, what now?”

“Get yourself comfortable, I suppose. Laff and George should be home soon.”

It was going to be an odd homecoming, to be sure.

 


	3. Laffy Taffy

Alexander wasn't sure what to make of this family. True, he had only met one of them, so he didn't exactly have a lot to go on yet, couldn't make a fair judgment call on them without having met the whole lot of them. But even with just Martha, he could try to get a feel for them. But so far, he wasn't sure what to think. Martha had not read his file. George had, and perhaps Lafayette had, he wasn't sure it hadn't come up. But Martha had not. Why was that?

Was it for the illusion of privacy and respect? She didn't seem so sure about that herself, but if that was part of it at least now he had given his consent and she could read it without guilt. Perhaps it was that she liked to be surprised? That sounded dangerous, but honestly it felt like this family didn't know or understand danger the way he did.

He had learned a little about them, in his single man tour of the ground floor. Lots of furniture, but all of it had different styles from each other. One wing-back, one love seat with well worn pillows, a couch with a quilt on the top, to name a few. They were all away from the wall, in some haphazard arrangement that didn't move much. The carpet told him that the chairs had been where they were for a long time, which was good for him at least.

And frames! So many picture frames! On the walls, on the mantle, on the tables and desks, even one large one on the floor! Though that one could have been a mirror, now that he thought about it. Pictures, he was sure, of a happy family. He didn't know when Laf had been adopted, but he figured it was long enough ago that there were pictures of awkward first dates, first days of school, birthday parties with the family. There were probably happy sepia tone pictures of George and Martha's wedding, maybe a black and white one of them on a beach somewhere for an anniversary, probably a happy one of a gap toothed smile of the day Laf's paperwork was officially signed and he was adopted.

The walls had been painted, instead of wallpapered, telling of a more modern feel despite the age of the house. She had said it had been remodeled not long ago. He imagined the walls to be a soft cream color, maybe with white trim. And blue carpet, it had to be blue carpet. The kitchen was probably tile, white tile. No, grey, with grey counter tops and white cabinets to match the open floor plan it had. And the dinning room had been hardwood flooring, probably with a darker cream to yellow color paint, though the chairs were probably the same cream as the rest of the house. But the living room probably had a whole rainbow of colors in their seating. They had felt like all the pieces were from random finds, rather than any one set.

And the house smelled clean. Not the clean of hospitals, or people who had maids do their cleaning for them. No, it smelled like the kind of clean that comes from open windows and sunshine. The bathrooms had smelled of toothpaste and lavender soap. Laf's room smelled faintly of strawberry body spray through the door, and Martha's and George's room had smelled strongly of cologne. His own smelled like paint, like it had recently been redone. Not that that was bad.

He wondered what color his room was. Was it green, a dark green, like grass in the summer? Maybe it was yellow like the rest of the house; that cream color but more intense. He ran his hand over the bedspread, and felt the cotton that gave way under his fingers. Nothing fancy, no silk or satin sheets, just simple soft cotton with a decent thread count to make it comfortable. It was cool, and soft.

The family felt much like the cotton. Cool, soft, comfortable. Something that'll warm up the longer you stay in it and become just right. But how long would he stay in it? That was the real question.

It felt like a normal family. In a normal home. With normal kids and normal problems and normal love. So where did he fit in? What made them bring a blind teenager into their perfect little home? It wasn't missing anything by him not being there; their kid had tons of friends that probably made sure they were never lonely. And if he did get lonesome, why not just get a dog? Why foster some teenager? He couldn't figure it out. They were such a normal family, how did he fit into this whole picture? Why not read his file and see what she was getting into? Why not turn him down the second she realized he was blind? And he had been so rude and sarcastic to her, why didn't she reprimand him? That felt the weirdest out of all of it.

He had heard it all before. We're different, we'll take care of you properly, we'll love you despite your difference. Didn't they get that he was going to be difficult? Not just because of his disability in a new home, but because he was a teenager in the system. He wasn't going to be a perfect angel, and no one seemed to get that. Did these people?

What was their son like? Was Laf some perfect child and they thought he would be the same? Probably has the best grades in the class, a hit with all the girls, popular, fashionable, the perfect teen. He was nothing like that. He would never be anything like that. He hoped they understood that.

“Where is he? Is he here yet?” Alexander was pulled from his musings by a slightly accented voice floating from below. That must be Laf, it sounded like a young enough voice. Unfolding his cane again, Alex made his way towards the stairs, hoping to get a little more information about this family before passing any real judgment about them. It was only fair. They had read up on him (mostly) so he would read up on them.

“I'm here I'm here, let me come down before you get too excited.” He called, counting the stairs as he worked towards the landing. He heard a bag be unceremoniously dropped to the ground, before a squeal came from what he supposed was his new brother.

“Oh! But you are so cute! You are so tiny mon brother! Come come!” A hand was on his shoulder, spinning him around gently before fussing with his hair.

“This will not do. No. Your hair is a disaster and you have holes in your knees. Upstairs, this will be fixed!” Before he knew it, he was being tugged back up the stairs from which he came, pulled towards the strawberry scented door, and pushed into a chair he guessed belonged to a desk.

“I am Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de La Fayette, Marquis de La Fayette! But you may call me just the Marquis, if you like. Lafayette works, or Laf. Laffy Taffy John likes to call me. You are Alexander, no? Do you like Alex, Xander, Lexi? Oh, are you he, or she? Or they, I like they, them, their, all the neutrals.”

His hair was been brushed, and his new sibling was talking a mile a minute with the faintest of French accents. It took him by surprise, and a little bit of annoyance. Okay, a lot of annoyance. It was rude to just drag people around, start messing with them without their permission, make assumptions and ask questions without waiting for reasonable answers.

“Excuse me! Hands off!” Alex grabbed Laf's wrists, and held them away from his person. “Who said you could drag me around, or do my hair, or anything? And you call me Lexi, I will punch you in the mouth.”

The room froze for a very long set of heartbeats, before Laf gently tugged his wrists free, and set down the hairbrush.

“You are right. I am sorry. I get excited sometimes, but that's no excuse. Let's start over. I am Laf, your new sibling.”

“Alex, Alexander. He, him.” It was fair to give that much, at least. The tension seemed to loosen in the room.

“Thank you, Alex. Welcome to our home. This is my room, sorry to just pull you to it. Do you mind if I finish your hair? It's a mess, and now it's half brushed and you look a tad silly.”

“I guess so. But you're going to tell me some stuff while you do it.”

“Deal.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can imagine Alex with this hair, and clean shaven, then you get how I see the poor guy. Laf will take good care of that beautiful hair.  
> <http://www.newyorker.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/150209_r26101-864.jpg>


	4. Questions

“Alexander, this is my husband, George.”

“Good to meet you, sir.” Alex put out his hand, which George took with an odd look to his wife. Where was the rude upstart she was telling him about.

“Dinner is ready, care to join us at the table?”

“Of course. Thank you.” So far so good, Martha wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, but something was going on here. Their dinner was simple; broiled chicken with a green salad, potatoes, corn, a dinner roll, nothing fancy. A nice family dinner. She knew it wouldn't last, but it was nice.

“Alex, do you mind if I ask you a few personal questions?” He had been ready for this, Laf had told him this would happen. So Alexander nodded, putting aside his fork in favor of his cup of water.

“That depends, sir. What kind of personal questions? Will I be able to ask any back?”

“Fair enough. Yes, we'll trade. Answer for answer. Of course, if I touch on something too personal, you are more than free to not answer.”

“Thank you.”

“Alright, I'll start. Why don't you wear sunglasses? I don't know many blind folks, but the few I have met over the years tend to wear sunglasses.” Alex laughed at this question. George was a local representative, one who's name would be on the voting list for a senate seat come next term. He had expected something a little more politically charged.

“Sunglasses are for the benefit of the seeing. They are to hide what we are, and how we look. I'm proud of myself, and have no reason to hide my disability. Why should I hide something about myself just because it makes _someone else_ uncomfortable?”

“Good answer.” George stabbed a piece of chicken. “There is nothing wrong with wanting to be yourself. Alright, your turn.”

“Why foster a blind kid? Is it for political reasons?”

“No.” George answered quickly, a little faster than Alex was ready for.

“No, Alex, we actually decided to foster someone because of Laf.” Martha expanded.

“Martha and George adopted me when I was eleven. I was overseas, studying abroad here in America when my parents were killed. Martha and George were already my godparents, and my sponsors for my trip here. As I got older, I wanted someone else to feel the way I did. An end to the helplessness. Wanted someone else to feel the love that the Washington's have given me. So they agreed to foster a teen.”

“You were the first file we were sent.” George finished. “I read your file, found you weren't dangerous, and agreed to take you in. You just happened to be our first file, and our first foster.”

So there had been no special reason for taking in his disability. Just luck of the draw. Alex wasn't sure that was better or not.

“Out turn. I read you file, Alex, but it wasn't very clear. Were you always blind?” Martha was trying to be kind about it, at least.

Alex pushed his salad around his plate a bit, face down and brows bunched up in thought.

“You don't have to answer if you don't wan-”

“It's not that. I'm trying to word it right. No, I haven't always been blind. See, my mom. She worked at this really old hotel as a room service cleaner. She would take me to work with her, because she couldn't afford a baby sitter and James, my brother, was in school. She'd put me in the laundry room and I'd play with whatever she gave me to pass the time.

“Turns out, there was this mold in that room that caused cancer. I got sick, real sick. Fever, vomiting, chills. We thought it was just a flu, Mom got it too. But then I got these headaches, and my eyes would blur, and eventually I started to have seizures. So we went to a doctor, and Mom and I had these tumors in our brains from the mold. Mine was just starting, but her's. They couldn't operate on her, there were too many. But mine was just starting, it was just in one place.

“We couldn't afford a neurosurgeon, just a normal one. He promised he could do the job right..”

“I'm guessing he didn't?” Martha asked, quietly.

“No. He screwed something up, destroyed part of the visual center of my brain. My eyes work, they'll track something moving in their view, I'll squint in bright light, that sort of thing. But my brain doesn't get the signal from my eyes. It's dark, black, like wearing a blindfold all the time. I was six. Mom. Mom didn't last much longer. She died while I was still in the hospital.”

“So you know colors, then!” Laf sounded a bit too excited about that, which made Alex smile a little.

“Yes. I know what colors look like. And what the sunset looks like, and what I look like, and everything. I remember those.”

“What happened to your father, Alex?”

“Uh-uh, my turn to ask a question. Why politics?”

“Because I feel like I can help changed this world for the better. And I want to get on stage to try.”

“What a whishy-washy answer.”

“Perhaps, it's the answer I give to the media. But it's also the truth. There's a lot in this world that needs to be changed, and I want to try to help change it.”

“Fair enough. Alright, your question. My dad wasn't too bad. He wasn't an abusive asshole or anything. He just wasn't a father. Sunk a lot of our money into bad business deals, wound up without a penny to his name. So he ran away like a dog with his tail between his legs. I haven't heard from him since I was three. He probably died in the hurricane two years ago, like my brother did.”

“I'm sorry for all your losses, Alex.”

“Save it. They happened, nothing can bring them back. I'm finished with my food, may I be excused? It's been a long day.”

“Of course, of course. Good night, Alexander.” George wished him, followed by Martha and Laf. Alex left the table, feeling a bit ill. He hadn't meant to let it get to him, but trying to be so calm and flippant about what happened had actually hurt. He needed some rest to reset how he felt about everything. And sleep sounded good right about now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't normally ask for this. But I'd really appreciate some comments to let me know what you guys think. I'm trying a new pacing and a different style and I'd really like to know how you guys feel about it and the story itself. So if you could leave a note or two, that'd be great. If not that's fine, but if you can that'd be amazing. Thanks.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning; mentions of suicide. This chapter's a bit dark.

Alexander lay face down in the bed that was now his, and traced the scar on the back of his head. It was the reason he kept his hair long; for as much as he was all for being himself and not hiding who he was for the benefits of others, he didn't mind hiding pieces of himself for his own comfort. And the scar was part of that.

He had gotten sick, he and his mother both. Fever, vomiting, chills. They thought it had been just a simple flu. Until the seizures had set in. The headaches, the seizures, the loss of vision in his left eye. Doctor Stevens had been the one to find it. A tumor the size of a golf ball in his occipital lobe was the cause of everything. His mother had fared far worse. Several tumors, full blown cancer, all over her brain.

They couldn't afford a real surgeon, as much as Dr. Stevens tried to help. His mother was stuck as it was, no one could operate on her and save her. But someone could save Alex. So she found someone; a back alley doctor who was as shifty as he was cheap. He had cut open Alexander's head, removed the rock hard lump that was causing the problem, and stitched him back together again. If the saw was used the day before on some wood, what did it matter? If a few nerves got cut, it would be alright. After all, the bastard boy was saved, wasn't he?

His mother, on the other hand, refused to waste away. She would die on her own terms, and her own terms were to leave a note for her sons, run a bath, and find a razor.

Alex, six years old, woke up to a sobbing James, a dark world, and a dead mother.

Peter was the first to take them in. Peter, who had an on-again-off-again girlfriend and a son who cared very little for his father. Peter, who had raging depression and refused to seek help. Peter, who sent James to school and kept Alex at home because school didn't know how to help him. A blind student on their tiny island? They had no idea how to handle that, and refused to have him around.

Peter, who held Alex close to him, sobbing, as he put a gun in his mouth.

James came home to find Alexander sitting numbly next to Peter's body, covered in blood and grey matter. James had called the police, had gently pulled his younger brother away from their prying questions, and cleaned him up. Alex, for his part, had shut down. His mother, dead, his fault. His vision, gone, his fault. His cousin, dead, his fault. He couldn't handle it, not at the gentle age of seven.

Alex didn't remember the kind old man that had taken them in after that. They had only been there a few months before the old man had passed away, and in that time Alexander spent most of it in an unfeeling stupor. The Stevens, however, he did remember.

Doctor Stevens had felt the need to help the boys. So he took in James and Alexander, and tried to make them family. His youngest, Ned, had latched onto Alexander right away. It was Ned who had helped pull Alex out of his dark thoughts, who had helped get Alex started on his independence once more. With the help of James and Ned, Alex began to understand his world again. He began to practice walking around the house, to understand his surroundings without being able to see them. It was Doctor Stevens who had gotten Alexander the braille alphabet to study. It had been the Stevens' who had gotten the Hamilton's back on their feet.

Until the hurricane came. They thought they would be safe, they thought that the Stevens' house would be strong enough to withstand the storm. They hadn't counted on the boat.

James had been upstairs, looking for a flashlight since the power had been cut an hour ago. He had been upstairs when the storm picked up a fishing boat, and threw it up onto the land. He had been in the front of the house when the boat had crashed through the walls, killing him instantly.

When the hurricane was finally over, Alex was completely alone. His brother was dead, his cousin was dead, his mother was dead. All that was left was his father, somewhere, maybe. After a week of having been shut down again, Alex woke up from his stupor, and asked for some paper and a pen. With shaky hands, and unpracticed fingers, Alex worked one letter at a time to write to his father. He gave the messy paper to Doctor Stevens, and asked him to find a way to get it to his father. James Hamilton might come back to take in his son, he hoped.

But the Stevens were so moved by the words the boy had written, they had the letter published in a news paper. Which eventually hit the mainland, and caught the attention of the Red Cross, who made their way to the Caribbean to help. His letter caught the attention of some of the Stevens' friends in the States. And eventually, with their help, money was raised, a visa was obtained, and Alex was on a plane. A plane taking him to the United States, and far away from all the sorrow that had followed him through his life.

Taken him to eight families in five years. To a less than stellar schooling as every placement had trouble finding a way to accommodate his needs. Taken him to a place far from loss, but into frustration and anger. Alex may no longer be surrounded by death, but in its place he had become sarcastic, critical, cold, angry. He had done and seen too much in his sixteen years to be anything other than callous. He wanted a life away from sadness and pain. He just wanted a normal family to take him in and care for him. A school that could see to his needs without putting him in a “special” class that made him feel like a brainless child.

He hoped and wished that the Washington's would be that family, but he didn't get his spirits up too high. He had been fooled in the past, after all. But whatever else came, he refused to be treated as anything less than an adult. And if this family wanted to doubt him, fine. He'd show them exactly what the last ten years had taught him.

 


	6. Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler chapter. Just needed to get from A to B.

“Good morning Alexander.”

“George. I smell toast and eggs?”

“You do. Would you like some?”

“Please.”

“Did Martha show you where the plates are?”

“No, showed myself around but didn't get that detailed.”

“Second cabinet to the right, bottom shelf.”

Alex paused a moment, smiling to himself. George wasn't babying him, wasn't getting the plate for him or taking him by the hand to show him around. He never knew how nice that was until it happened.

Alexander ran his fingers over the knobs, counting, until he found the right door. Grabbed a plate, sat down, thinking, contemplating. He was trying to be a little nicer. He had came on strong yesterday, and they honestly hadn't done anything to hurt him. Not yet. So he'd tone down the snark. But he wasn't about to give them a free pass. He wasn't perfect, he had experienced loss, and they were going to have to deal with that. He wasn't going to just ignore it.

“Sleep well?” George pulled Alex from his thoughts, dishing some eggs onto his plate.

“Well enough. It takes a while to get used to a new place.”

“Understandable. If there's anything we can do let me know. We're going to get you some necessities today. Martha told me you weren't interested, but you have a hole in the toe of your shoe and that will not stand. We won't go overboard, nothing too big or too much. But shoes are non-negotiable. You will be getting new shoes today.”

Alex bit his tongue. He didn't want charity; he was here because of the charity of others. He wanted to work for whatever was given to him. Parents took care of their children, but he wasn't their child. He might be in their house, but he wasn't their child. He didn't want their money, or their things. So for him to say it wasn't a fight, to say it was happening without his say.

“Did I hear that we are taking the little one shopping?”

“For shoes, Laf. Just a few basics. A jacket would be good, it's going to get cold next week. Shoes, a jacket, maybe some socks. Not much, I know you don't want us getting you anything yet. But you do need a few things to at least get you through the snow next week.”

Fine. Just- fine. He couldn't exactly fight against that. He didn't have anything to withstand the snow, and he didn't feel like freezing his butt off. He made a non-committal noise and went back to his eggs.

“Which reminds me. Your school books are on order. As soon as they come in, you can start school.”

That made Alex freeze. School books? Him?”

“What?”

“Your textbooks. We went online and found them in braille, the school ordered them. You'll need something to do your homework on, I have an old laptop you can use if you wish. But for you notes I know there's a typewriter out there you could use. I'm sure we can find one in good condition.”

“What.”

“A braille typewriter.”

“No no I know what those are. I mean. What? Why?”

“Why what?”

“Exactly.”

“I'm lost.”

“Why did you get books, looking at typewriters, I don't understand.”

“You need them for school.”

Alex was silent. Laf and George went back to their breakfast as he sat, stunned, at what had just happened.

“Why did you get these things?”

“You need them for school.” George repeated.

“So you got them? You, found them?”

“Yes?”

“I don't understand.”

“What's to understand?”

“No one's ever- I mean. I've always been put into 'special ed' classes and there were never any books, and I was always so bored and annoyed. Are you saying I'll being in normal classes and I'll have books to read?”

“Yes. You need them.”

“And you're getting them?”

“Is that wrong?”

“No. Yes. I, don't know. I don't know how to handle this.”

“Just take it. You need to go to school.”

“Papa, do you mind if I ask my friends over for the shopping?”

“I don't see why not Laf. Go wake your mother.”

School. He was going to go to school, a normal school. With normal classes. He wasn't going to be stuck in a class where people treated him like he didn't understand basic English, or math, or couldn't handle being in a regular class. There was nothing wrong with special ed classes, or not having English as a first language. But he had been bored, he had been angry about it, and he had acted out. Now, normal school, normal classes? He didn't even have the chance to be angry about them buying him things. He was simply amazed that they had bothered. This wasn't “our social worker is coming so you need clothing” the way other families had. And he wasn't sure how to react.

 


End file.
